


I Feel Happy Inside (My Love I Can't Hide)

by Shoshanah-ben-hohim (Shoshanah_ben_hohim)



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Fluff, Getting Together, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-01
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2019-02-26 02:36:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13226367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shoshanah_ben_hohim/pseuds/Shoshanah-ben-hohim
Summary: “Meet our new otters!” Mitch reads,  “Their names are: Chowder (Dad) Clementine (Mom), Kevin, Olive, Peaches, Pickles, Pork Chop, Radish, Rutabaga, Saffron, and Turnip. We gratefully acknowledge our naming sponsor, Whole Foods Market, for their generous donation to the National Zoo otter program.”Mitch has to tell Dylan about this.





	I Feel Happy Inside (My Love I Can't Hide)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Menacherie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Menacherie/gifts).



> This work is unbeta-ed - apologies for errors I did not catch.
> 
> Also, I do not follow the Leafs or the Coyotes, so apologies for mistakes there (I do not, for instance, actually know who Mitch's road roommate is)
> 
> This is for Menacherie - hopefully I got some of the things you like! 
> 
> I realize this is shameless fluff. I do not apologize, because I love the Whole Foods otter family at the National Zoo (they are real, google them!!!) and I am delighted to write a fic about them. Fic title from the Beatles "I Wanna Hold Your Hand".

 

Mitch is feeling pretty down when they fly into DC to play the Caps. He’s talked to Dylan almost every day since he got sent down, trying to cheer him up with wild stories, or just watching TV and youtube videos with him over Skype, and he honestly isn’t sure if it’s making a difference. Maybe nothing will help, except Dylan getting called back up, but Mitch can’t just accept that, can’t just act like everything is fine and let Dylan be, like Davo has gently suggested to him. He’s a happy person. He wants his friends to be happy with him, and Dylan isn’t happy.  

 

Besides, it’s only about a month until the Coyotes come to Toronto on November 20th, and now that Dylan’s been sent down he might not even be there. Mitch feels a wild kind of anxiety in his stomach at the thought. He loves his teammates, but he misses Dylan and Davo and Dvo and his other friends from Juniors. He memorizes the dates of his games against them and looks forward to seeing them. 

 

Mitch gets attached to people, and he isn’t good at letting go. 

 

So Mitch is not happy. He’s tired and anxious, and that’s not good, just a few weeks into the season. He has to get it together. Luckily, they’re landing in DC on the morning of the 16th, and their game isn’t until tomorrow. As they taxi down the tarmac, Mitch pulls out his phone.  _ Things to do in DC _ , he googles.

 

He scrolls down the list, pausing near the bottom. He grins.

 

“Hey,” he says, loudly. “Who wants to come to the zoo with me?”

 

Mo does, and Gards, Willy and Hymie, Marty, and once he sees who else is going, Matty. Excellent. 

 

“We’ll get lunch,” Mo says, predictably taking charge, “after we drop off our bags, and then we’ll go. How do we get there, Mitchy?” Mitch doesn’t bother to answer, knowing that Marty and Gards will soon be offering contradictory opinions and squabbling about it, no matter what he says.

 

It ends up being nearly two by the time they get there, but Mitch is already feeling more relaxed. Lunch was good, and Mitch laughed harder than he has in days at Mo and Willy’s confusion navigating the Metro. They pause at the zoo entrance.

 

“Right, I think we should start with the elephants,” Mo says, looking up at the zoo map. “Wait, where are you - Mitchy, where are they going?” Mitch looks up to see Willy and Marty wandering off, Matty trailing behind. 

 

“Oh, forget it, Mo, we all have cell phones, we can find each other, I’ll go look at the elephants with you,” Gards rolls his eyes and smiles at Mitchy, dragging Mo off behind him, still protesting weakly. 

 

“What do you want to see, Mitchy?” Hymie asks, still waiting patiently at the zoo entrance. Mitch shrugs. 

 

“Anything,” he says. He points to the opening of a trail. “Let’s just walk that way.” Hymie nods, and they amble down the path, looking at the ducks, wolves, and seals. And then, otters.

 

“Oh my god,” Mitch says, delighted. He pulls out his phone to take a picture, and Hymie calls out to him. 

 

“Mitchy,” he says, laughing. “Read the sign.”

 

“ _ Meet our new otters! _ ” Mitch reads,  _  “Their names are: Chowder (Dad) Clementine (Mom), Kevin, Olive, Peaches, Pickles, Pork Chop, Radish, Rutabaga, Saffron, and Turnip. We gratefully acknowledge our naming sponsor, Whole Foods Market, for their generous donation to the National Zoo otter program.” _

 

“Mitchy,” Hymie is gasping with laughter. “Pickles. Pork Chop. Turnip. And then Kevin!” Mitch laughs too, turning to look at the otters. 

 

“I wonder which one he is?” he wonders. “Is he not part of the same family?” Hymie has his phone out. Suddenly, he lets out a huge snort. 

 

“There was a public naming poll,” he says. “Whole Foods got to name the family, but the public got to name one baby.”

 

“Oh my god, this is amazing.” Mitch has to tell Dylan about this. Also Davo, but mostly Dylan. If it makes him half as happy as Mitch is right now, he needs to know.

 

But how can Mitch maximize the impact? He doesn’t want to just send a blurry snap of a few otters in a tank at the zoo, and a slightly better snap of the sign. Dylan will like that, but it’ll only make him happy for about five minutes. He almost asks Hymie what he thinks, but Hymie doesn’t know Dylan. 

 

“Are you ready to move on, Mitchy?” Hymie’s shuffling his feet at the edge of the exhibit. Mitch hesitates, and then all of the sudden, he has it, in a flash of inspiration. He takes a picture of the sign, careful to get a good one, and follows Hymie along the path. 

 

“Hymie,” he says seriously, “I am a genius.”

 

“Okay, babe,” Hymie says. He doesn’t understand. Mitch  _ is _ a genius.

 

On the way out of the zoo; Mitch buys a stuffed otter in the gift shop. That evening, he goes to the Giant near their hotel and buys a can of clam chowder, and to a Bed Bath and Beyond for picture frames.  

 

It’s a bit of a headache to persuade the hotel staff to print a picture from his phone to their office printer, but Mitch can be very charming when he wants to be. The next morning, he has his can of clam chowder, along by a framed picture of clam chowder, courtesy of Google (After all, Dylan might eat the soup), packaged and in the mail to Dylan.  On his way to morning skate. He marks off a calendar, planning it out so his last gift will mail before November 20th. 

 

Dylan will be so confused. But he’s going to love it  _ so  _ much.

 

Mitch can barely get his plan out coherently when he calls Davo after his game, whispering into his phone his hotel room bathroom so Matty can sleep. His words tumble out in an excited rush, and Davo has to keep asking him to slow down. 

 

“Jesus fucking christ, Mitchy,” Davo sighs, when he finally finishes, but he’s amused, Mitch can tell. And if Davo likes it, Dylan will love it. “You could just ask him out? Write him a letter or an email, and tell him how you feel?”

 

What.

 

“What?” Mitch says, wincing when it echoes loudly in the bathroom. Hopefully Matty wasn’t asleep yet. “Ask him out?” 

 

“You don’t want to ask him out?” Davo asks, gently. “It sounds like...you really care about him.”

 

“I do!” Mitchy says, “But, like, so do you!” Mitch’s heart is beating fast, and his face feels weirdly hot.

 

“Right, but…” Davo sighs. “Maybe just think a little bit about how you really feel? About him?”

 

“I feel like I want him to be happy?” Mitch tries. He’s bewildered. Where is Davo even getting this from? “I’m worried that he’s not, right now?” 

 

“I said, think about it,” Davo says, sounding tired. “Call me again later.” 

 

“Okay,” Mitch agrees dubiously. Davo’s always right, and nobody knows Dylan better, so of course he agrees. He just doesn’t know what good it’ll do. “But...this is a good idea? He’ll like it?”

 

“Oh, for sure,” Davo says, and Mitch can tell he’s smiling, just from his voice. “I can’t wait for him to call me asking if I know what the fuck is going on.”

 

“Don’t tell him!” 

 

“Of course not!” Davo says, insulted. 

 

“Okay, good.” Mitch says. “I better go to bed, Davo, it’s super late here.”

 

“Right, talk to you soon, Mitchy,” Davo says. 

 

“Thanks, Davo,” Mitch says softly, hanging up. He creeps back into the hotel room and plugs in his phone.

 

This is gonna be  _ awesome _ . 

 

Mitch has to send two gifts per week for Dylan to get the last gift on November 20th. Of course, if Dylan’s still going to be in the AHL, then Mitch will have to mail it ahead of time, but he’ll cross that bridge when he comes to it. 

 

After the chowder, Mitch sends a carton of clementines, complete with photo. It’s a big improvement on the chowder photo, since he takes the opportunity when they’re home for their game against Detroit to find good photos for the rest of the gifts and get them nicely printed ahead of time. 

 

Week two, he sends a jar of olives and canned peaches. Week three, a jar of pickles and saffron from the spice aisle at the supermarket. 

 

After that, it gets harder. He gets home from his roadie on November 5th and calls Davo for help.

 

“Dude,” Davo answers, starting with a Dylan progress report, the new standard for their calls. “He’s losing his mind. He has no fucking clue what’s going on and he’s  _ so _ mad at me because I won’t tell him anything, except that he has to keep the pictures.”

 

“He wasn’t going to keep them?” Mitch asks, alarmed. 

 

“No, he was. I think his exact words were, ‘are you fucking crazy? Why would I throw them out? Now tell me what’s going on? What do they mean? Where does he want me to hang them? Davoooo!!!!!!’” Davo puts on a stupid, nasally voice to be Dylan. It grates on Mitch’s ears.

 

“Dylan doesn’t sound like that,” Mitch objects, because he doesn’t.  “He’s going to hang them up?”

 

“I think right now he has them on his kitchen counter so he can continuously rearrange them and try to solve the puzzle; but if you asked him to, he would for sure hang them up,” Davo says, laughing. “Don’t you talk to him too?”

 

“Of course! He like, thanks me for the gifts if he’s gotten one since we last talked, and he’ll ask me about it sometimes, but then I’ll change the subject and he lets me. And we talk about other stuff,” Mitch says. “Like, same as always.”

 

“What,” Davo complains. “He never stops bothering me about it.  _ Favoritism! _ ” Mitch feels a warm curl of happiness in his stomach. Davo is really Dylan’s favorite, everyone knows that, but Dylan is Mitch’s favorite, so it’s nice to hear Davo say the reverse is also true, even if he’s wrong.

 

“He has good taste,” Mitch says. “But Davo, I called because I need help,” 

 

“Oh thank god,” Davo says. “You finally thought about how you feel.” Mitch pauses, confused.

 

“Uh… no?”

 

“Fuck,” Davo grumbles. “Okay, what?”

 

“I’ve sent all the easy things,” Mitch explains, “All I’ve got left are vegetables. And a pork chop, how the fuck am I gonna send him a pork chop?”

 

“I think you can send him the vegetables,” Davo says, “Turnips and radishes aren’t like, spinach, or tomatoes or something. They should survive the mail well enough for him to identify, and he doesn’t have to eat them, that’s not the point.”

 

“Right. And the pork chop?” Mitch asks. Davo hums thoughtfully. 

 

“I think you may have to enlist a deputy, Mitchy,” he says, after a long pause. “Mail the picture to Dvo, and have him deliver the pork chop with it on the right day.”

 

“Davo,” Mitch swallows against a lump in his throat. “What if Dvo’s on the roadie, coming here on the 20th, and Dylan’s…”

 

“Then Dvo will know who can help deliver it to him in Tucson, won’t he?” Davo says. “Want me to call him?”

 

“No!” Mitch says, indignant. “Dvo is  _ my  _ Juniors teammate, and this is my…” Mitch trails off.

 

“Yes, what is this that you’re doing, exactly?” Davo asks, laughing.    
  


“Shut up,” Mitch grumbles. 

 

“Start thinking, Mitchy, I’m waiting.” Davo says. “I told Dylan to think, too.”

 

“What?” Mitch says, “Think about what?” 

 

“Bye, Mitchy,” Davo sings, hanging up. 

 

Davo is annoying, but he’s right. During week four, Mitch sends Dylan a turnip and a radish. This is finally too much for Dylan. He calls on Sunday, after Mitch gets back from his home-and-home with Boston.

 

“Mitchy, I’m dying, you have to give me a hint,” he says as soon as Mitch picks up. “Also, way to light it up against Boston, you were fucking awesome,” 

 

“Thanks, buddy,” Mitch says, glowing warmth filling his chest. “I  _ am _ awesome. But I don’t give hints.” 

 

“ _ Mitchy,”  _ Dylan whines, and it’s not cute. Definitely not. Mitch doesn’t desperately wish Dylan was there with him, so he could tackle him and tickle him until he stops whining. He’s just fine chatting on the phone with him. “I googled like, everything, in every combination. I’m getting nowhere!”

 

“Only three more to go, bud,” Mitch says. “And then you’ll know. You’ll like it, I promise.”

 

“Okay, okay,” Dylan grumbles. “What is this for, anyway?” he asks.  _ To make you happy _ , Mitch thinks, but stops himself from saying it out loud. Well, shit.

 

“You’ll see,” he says vaguely, after a second of blind panic. “Hey, Dylan, gotta go. Talk to you soon?”

 

“Yeah, for sure,” Dylan agrees. “Bye, Mitchy” Mitch hangs up and moans.

 

_ Shit _ . He drops his phone on his counter with a clatter and puts his head in his hands.  _ To make you happy. _ This, Mitch realizes, might be what Davo has been talking about. Mitch picks up his phone again. 

 

“Mitchy, do you know what time it is in Edmonton?” Davo complains when he answers. Mitch blinks.

 

“No? Dylan didn’t say anything about it when I called!” he says, chewing on his lip anxiously. Davo sighs.

 

“Dylan doesn’t care  _ when _ you call, Mitchy, he’s always gonna pick up,” he says. “He likes you more than I do.”

 

“You love me!” Mitchy complains. 

 

“Sure,” Davo says tiredly. “What’s the crisis?”

 

“I’m in love with him!” Mitch says. Yells, might be more accurate. There’s a thump and clatter - he thinks it might be Davo dropping his phone. “Davo - Davo, are you there? Davo, I need you!”

 

“I’m here,” Davo says, sounding positively gleeful.”I am  _ so _ here for this. You finally using your brain, Mitchell?”

 

“He asked me what it was all for,” Mitch explains, somewhat frantically. “And I realized what the answer was. While I was on the phone with him!” He’s yelling again by the time he finishes, breathing fast.

 

“What did you say?” Davo asks. 

 

“I just told him he’d find out at the end! Now what do I do?” Mitch paces through his apartment. Thank god they’re not on a roadie.

 

“Figure out how to tell him how you feel by the time you send the last gift,” Davo says. Like it’s the obvious thing to do, and not terrifying and probably very stupid.

 

“What?” Mitch screeches. 

 

“What’s the alternative, Mitchy?” Davo says, serious. “Tell him you did this so he wouldn’t feel bad about being in the AHL, just so you can avoid telling him how you feel about him?” Mitch winces. Dylan will hate that. It will make him feel terrible, and then he’ll hate the gifts because they’ll make him feel terrible, and he’ll hate Mitch. 

 

And of course it’ll be awful when Dylan has to gently let Mitch down, and then awkwardly navigate around Mitch’s stupid feelings every time they talk and hang out until he gets over it, but it would be worse if Mitch did all this just to make Dylan happy and instead made him sad.

 

“Yeah,” Mitch says glumly, as the chill of impending doom creeps through him. “I guess. How do I tell him?”

 

“Come on, Mitchy, you don’t need my help with that,” Davo scolds. “You came up with this whole awesome idea on your own.”

 

“Right,” Mitch says, “Awesome. Exactly. I will… figure it out.”

 

“Keep me posted!” Davo says cheerily. “You got this!”

 

“Sure,” Mitch says, hanging up gloomily.

 

Over the next week; he mails the rutabaga, and works out the logistics of the pork chop and pork chop photo delivery with Dvo, and he thinks.

 

Finally, he puts together the final package. Not only is it terrifying, it sucks that he has to mail it at all. He wanted to give it to Dylan when the Coyotes came to Toronto. But Dylan’s still in Tucson, so Kevin the stuffed otter from the National Zoo has to go in the mail. 

 

Mitch puts the photo he took in October of the sign from the otter exhibit in the package unframed, attached to Kevin’s paw with a ribbon. Instead, in the last frame, he finds a photo from last summer, Dylan with his arm around Mitch’s shoulders, both of them laughing. He thinks about how sad Dylan was in October, and how much happier he is now, even though he’s still playing in Tucson. Mitch takes a breath and pulls a blank sheet of paper towards himself.

 

_ D, _

_ I miss you all the time. When I went to the zoo and saw the otters, they made me happy, because they made me think of you. And I wanted them to make you happy too. I always want to make you happy. _

_ I love you, _

_ Mitch _

 

It’s so horribly sappy it makes Mitch cringe, but it’s the truth. He folds it and tucks it into the frame, in front of the picture, and closes the box. When he mails it, he snaps a photo to Davo, who sends him a text with so many emojis it’s total gibberish.

 

Dylan is supposed to get the package on the 20th, but you never know with international mail. Mitch knows he needs to think about hockey, not the gift Dylan may not even get today, but he’s a mess at morning skate, and he sleeps badly during his pre-game nap. 

 

He gets it together for the game, not that it matters. Mitch’s assist doesn’t mean much in a 4-1 loss. He’s exhausted afterwards, from the game and a whole day of anxiety, and he knows he’ll just keep worrying until Dylan gets the package. But when he gets back to his stall after his shower and sees his phone, he has three texts from Dylan.

 

**I GOT THE LAST GIFT IM SO EXCITED**

 

**MITCHY OMG CALL ME AS SOON AS YOU GET HOME!!!!!**

 

**< 3**

 

Mitch stares at the texts, a fluttery feeling in his stomach. A heart. Dylan sent a heart. That’s good. Is that good? His first impulse is to call Davo to ask him to interpret, but he squashes it. He’s not quite that pathetic.

 

He’ll drive home, and he’ll call Dylan.

 

It seems like it’s all a blur, until Mitch is sitting on his living room couch, holding his phone.

 

“Right,” he says. He takes a deep breath and hits call.

 

“YOU,” Dylan yells as soon as he picks up. Mitch jumps about a foot in the air. “You are the best. I actually cried over your letter, you jackass.” Mitch blinks.

 

“I’m the best,” he repeats dumbly. “You liked it?”

 

“Liked it?” Dylan laughs, although it sounds a little choked. “You absolute dumbass. I loved it. I love  _ you. _ Or, I guess, I love you too, since you said it first. Wrote it first.” Mitch feels light, like a huge weight has lifted from him, and bubbly with happiness. He laughs.

 

“Great,” he says. “Hey, Dylan.”

 

“Yeah,” Dylan says, sounding like the Dylan who won the Junior scoring title, the Dylan from the draft, from Ivan Hlinka. Because of  _ Mitch _ . Mitch resists the urge to celly.

 

“Would you like to go on a date with me,” he says. Dylan laughs.

 

“Where could you take me that could beat your awesome month long courtship?” Dylan asks. “I feel like any date will be disappointing.” Mitch’s face hurts, he’s smiling so wide.

 

“Well, I was kind of thinking, the next time we’re in the same place, we could check out a zoo, visit the otters,” he suggests. Dylan is quiet, and Mitch goes on nervously. “Also, like, on a date there could be kissing, and obviously that was missing from my...courtship.”

 

“Kissing sounds good,” Dylan says quickly. Mitch feels the heat rise in his cheeks. “Kissing sounds great. We don’t need to go to a zoo, though. There’s only one otter family I care about, and thanks to you, I’ve already got all of their pictures.”

 

“Except Kevin’s,” Mitch feels obliged to point out. “Figured you didn’t need a picture of him, since you might keep the otter, unlike all the food presents.”

 

“Yeah, I was going to ask, what the fuck is up with that?” Dylan says, indignant. “What did poor Kevin do, to get singled out like that? It’s like he’s not even part of the family!  We should complain! Get the people involved!” Mitch snorts, and starts to laugh. 

 

“Well, Dylan,” he wheezes. “Funny story.”


End file.
